


Here We Are At the Start

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dumpster-mates, Humanstuck, M/M, Multi, Stringstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-29 23:41:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 24,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"This violin is older than you. It's older than me. It's older than Grandma, even."<br/>"Even Grandma?"<br/>"It's been in our family for many years- since it was made, actually. It's always been ours. It's mine now, but one day- it will be yours, ok? Never sell it. Promise Daddy." </i></p><p><i>"I pwomise."</i></p><p>Your violin's name is ANNABEL. She's priceless. She's all you have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kink meme, at which I was told this was good enough to put here.

_"This violin is older than you. It's older than me. It's older than Grandma, even." Carmine Vantas murmurs as tiny hands glide over the instrument's body. "Even Grandma?" Karkat is breathless, awed, completely floored. He cranes his neck to look up at the owner of the lap he is sitting in. Daddy has to be lying. He didn't think anything could possibly be older than Grandma! She was ancient! His father laughs, a truly beautiful smile stealing his lips. _

_"It's been in our family for many years- since it was made, actually. It's always been ours. It's mine now, but one day- it will be yours, ok? Never sell it." There's sincerity in his father's eyes, along with a strange type of need, "Promise Daddy." It's almost begging. Karkat, with his bright crimson eyes, peaks through his thick charcoal bangs at his father and his desperation. The answer is stupidly simple, Karkat thinks, why would Daddy even worry?_

 _"I pwomise." The toddler chirps, kicking his legs and cradling the family heirloom like a newborn. His father smiles down at him, pacified and pleased._

 _"How's about we learn a new song?"_

 _"Yeah!"_

 

 **=== > Be an onlooker.**

Subway Station 6 is his station. Every single day he's there, bearing his heart for all to see. It almost breaks yours. Faceless people pass by, crowds shuffle along, and nobody pays him the attention he deserves. He's truly gifted, a musician worthy of Carnegie Hall. And yet, he's lucky if a handful of people toss spare change into the open violin case at his feet.

There's something about him that strikes something deep inside you. You want to reach out, pull him close and do nothing but hold him. You never really believed in love at first sight; it was just a load of Disney bullshit.

But you didn't see him first. You _heard_ him. And it was beautiful. And then you saw him. And, fuck, he was beautiful too.

He's short and skinny and when he's not playing his soul, he's wearing a scowl that could dissuade even the Devil from approaching. There's dark circles beneath his red, red eyes, nearly dark enough to rival the raven-coloured mess he probably calls his hair. Today he's wearing a faded black shirt, a size or two too big, really old jeans and fairly battered combat boots. There's concentration on his face, passion in his fingers, and $4.37 in his violin case.

You lean against the wall, let the music wash over you, and think.

 

 

 **== > Be the fucking subway virtuoso.**

No. You can't be the fucking subway virtuoso because the fucking subway virtuoso doesn't fucking exist. There is no virtuoso here.

 

 

 **== > Ok, fine. Be the homeless bum with the stolen violin.**

Hey! Hey! You are certainly _not_ homeless! And this violin has been in your family since it was fucking made!

Thank you very much!

 

 

 **== > Fuck this shit, go back to being the creepy onlooker.**

Alright. But your name isn't 'creepy onlooker', nor are you being creepy in your onlooking. You're just appreciating the beauty of this amazing violinist.

Your name is SOLLUX CAPTOR, you are TWENTY-FOUR years old, and most certainly the youngest player in the SKAIA SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA. You are also one of THE BEST. You should hope so. TWENTY FUCKING YEARS of violin should pay off somehow.

DUALITY is a constant in your personality. BIPOLAR, BISEXUAL, HETEROCHROMIC, and your socks never seem to match. Neither do your shoes, but that's on purpose.

You're currently single after that horrible accident with your last girlfriend. It's actually how you found this undiscovered goldmine of talent. You were horribly depressed- who wouldn't be? Your girlfriend of nearly two years broke up with you in the middle of a hospital ER. A _busy_ hospital ER. You were on your way, half-convinced to blow your brains against the ceiling, when you heard it.

Raw and exposed, music that mirrored your every muddled emotion. Dark, violent, angry, his music was absolutely nothing like you've ever heard before.

It still is like nothing you've ever heard.

That first day you made note of everything, and then just sat back, watching. The next day, same time, same place, you appeared at Station Six, in hopes to hear him again. It was a horrible hit-and-miss method, but to your complete relief, he was there. You tried different times. He was there. Always there, laying out his heart in his hands for passerbys to shirk and ignore, to scoff and scorn, to rush and waste.

It took more than a few wasted afternoons listening to realize that you were consumed by infatuation for a vagrant violinist whom you knew nothing about.

  
 **== > Follow him home**   


No! That is a catastrophic idea! The sheer idiocy and audacity! Who would dare suggest such a thing?! Sollux Captor is no stalker!

  
 **== > Time for a change in pace; be the violinist**   


Which one? You will have to be more specific with these decisions.

  
 **== > Seriously?! Ugh- be the angry subway fiddler**   


Oh HELL NO. You are _no_ fiddler! Country music is the bane of musical society- like the awkward uncle at family reunions, the one that always interjects with irrelevant anecdotes and eats all the mini hot-dogs and gets away with it because he just an uncle, a wifeless deadbeat with a dead-end job and a drunken temper.

But that's just your humble opinion


	2. Chapter 2

**== > Be the worthless subway violinist**

That's pretty easy; you've been the worthless subway violinist for roughly three years now. Since you were sixteen, to be precise. It hasn't been too terrible, you suppose. You could have ended up much worse off than you currently are. Homeless, dead- or worse, without Annabel.

Your name is KARKAT VANTAS and this is your pathetic life.

 

 

 **== >Fondly recall your childhood whilst you mindlessly play a fitting masterpiece.**

Sure, how about a nice piece by _Mahler?_ Perhaps the second movement of Tchaikovsky's violin concerto? The Devil's Trill? Anna's theme? Ha! Your childhood was anything _but_ nice.

You were SIX when the social worker took you away from your father, and you screamed and cried through the entire affair. You were SEVEN when the first family adopted you. The social worker took you away from them when you were EIGHT. You were kept in the shittiest orphanage ever until another family adopted you at the age of TEN. It didn't work out. You went through adoptive families like they were going out of style for the next few years, bouncing around the foster care system like a high-score beating game of Pong. You were FOURTEEN when the nicest fucking family found you. They took you in- you with your battered heart, tortured eyes, and priceless gift. And then, when you were SIXTEEN, you confessed to being gay.

Needless to say, that conversation didn't go well.

You choose to play Anna's Theme instead. You have a certain love for this piece. Just as you finish up the five o'clock train from the business section of town rolls into the station. Time to collect the spoils of war. $5.72. You _suck._

You pack up shop. As you depart you brush up against this tall, lanky guy in a yellow checkered shirt and some pretty odd shades. He looks familiar, but you don't care enough right now to figure out from where.

He's pretty cute.

 

 

 **== > Insert coin**

You have no more quarters. :(

 

 

 **== > GAME OVER**

Awww. And you were so close! You were so close this time!

More than a little discouraged you rub at your arm, sigh, and wheel yourself out from the arcade. You're out of quarters too. This means you can't take the bus home. You'll have to walk-or rather wheel home. Your mood is official dreary. It figures. Of course you'd become so enamored in the game that you'd burn all your money on it. Well, you try to stay positive as a nice bunch of grade-schoolers eager to game opens the door for you. With a bright smile and a sincere "Thank you!", you're on your way. It's not raining, for one. It's not too hot, not too cold- perfect for bikers, joggers and crippled young men on the move.

You're a SHY little guy since most people tend to look over your head until they trip over you. Ever since the CAR ACCIDENT, you've been horrible INSECURE. No. Scratch that. You've ALWAYS been INSECURE, the ACCIDENT just made it WORSE. You're also TOO NICE FOR YOUR OWN GOOD, but people are usually really nice back. Though, apparently, several people WALK ALL OVER YOU, you NEVER SEEM TO NOTICE.

Your name is TAVROS NITRAM; what do you do next?


	3. Chapter 3

**== > Wheel home, obviously!**

It's nice outside! So with your hands on the wheels, you begin your journey home. You pass several people, some smile, some don't. Everything began proceeding like a typical day.

And then you pass _that place._ The accident scene.

When you were eight, this very street corner witnessed the loss of your legs. You were so little then. So very little. You remember very clearly.  
The light said walk, but you ran.  
Mama said stay, but you didn't.   
Some screamed no, but you whispered _sí._  
A car ran the red light.  
You flew through the air.

"Whoa motherfucker! Why so . . . frowny?"

A little yelp of surprise leaves your lips as your gaze locks onto the one who had startled you. He looks like an awkward cross between a druggie, a track star, and a clown. You should be afraid. He's homeless, no doubt, from the state of his clothing (poor) and a musician, from the guitar lovingly cradled in his hands (like a lifeline). But you can't feel any fear, only that odd mix of pity and excitement. You're also nervous, but you are always nervous around other people- especially new people.

"I-I'm not, uh, frowny." You stammer out, feeling the heat of a blush overtake your cheeks. The man's lips stretch into a lazy smile.

"Really motherfucker? Cause it looked like you motherfuckin needed to get your chill on." He leans against the brick wall of whatever store- a pizzeria, and begins plucking random notes from his guitar. He hasn't stopped looking at you; it's somewhat unnerving. You're definitely not use to being the centre of someone's attention. You squirm in your chair.

And then the random notes wove a song.

"This motherfucker heard that an accident gone and motherfuckin' killed some people here. Not too long ago. Poor motherfuckers." The stranger's grin fades as his gaze rests upon the busy intersection. "My best friend says this intersection is all up and motherfuckin' cursed, bro. Says this place is all bad juju." His voice is kinda rough, like a smoker, and lazy. But everything about him is kinda lazy. It's . . . comforting, somehow. You find yourself at ease with this complete stranger. It took years for you to be this comfortable with your friends. You're not even completely comfortable with Vriska yet! But- but this street musician just walked over and wormed his way right in.

And you're okay with that.

 

 

 **== > Be that suave motherfucker**

Alright bro.

 

 

 **== > Serenade that motherfuckin' miracle**

Sure bro. But that shit's for the second date. You know this. Karkat told you this. Karkat's wicked smart. He graduated from some prestigious highschool. You didn't even make it through regular highschool.

So, how's about a motherfucker gets to know this little miracle better?

 

 

 **== > Sollux: Be late for work**

Fucking bitch. Well isn't this just lovely?

You check the clock again, snarling at the time, as if it was the poor little machine's fault. Well, it actually was the stupid little machine's fault. You need a new clock. One with a working alarm. And body.

Yeah, throwing it against the wall in a fit of momentary rage wasn't very bright.

You tear out of your flat with your messily assembled clothing and best violin and by the time you reach the ground floor of your building you're tearing your unruly hair out.

And then you remember what today is.  
Chair auditions.

Fuck your life.

 

 

 **== > Ok. Who's this asshole?**

This asshole? _This asshole?!_ Excuse you sir, but you are ERIDAN AMPORA. You're the HEIR to the unrivaled boat manufacturing empire and you have more money in your back pocket than any _commoner_ earns in a _year_. So learn some fuckin manners!

 

 

 **== > Quick! Be someone else before we all die of douschbag overdose!**

You are Sollux again. And you are _not happy_. Your worst enemy is standing next to the orchestra's conductor and he's looking at you with that smug look that makes you want to punch his face in. Goddammit.

You smile up at the conductor, but it's forced and as painful as the grip on your violin case. Doc Scratch catches your gaze and smiles politely in return. He's as professional as ever. Even with something as trivial as chair auditions he's dressed like a true gentleman, in a dapper white suit. He still looks ill; you wonder if he's in any pain.

"Thorry I'm late-" You wince at the lisp, but it's not like you can help it. Doc Scratch looks a bit displeased. Eridan is practically oozing that toxic arrogance. His ego is overbearing. You scowl at him as the conductor turns his back. He’s still sneering. “Wwell, wwell Sol. Looks like you’re goin’ to be playin’ second fiddle to me again.” He laughs and nothing would please you more that to wring his spoiled rich kid neck. He hasn’t worked his fucking ass off to get where you are, right now. You’ve put everything you got into the job you currently hold and just waltzes in, drops his name and plays a little tune and-and-and-

 _Prick._

He makes your blood boil and nothing on earth would give you more delight than to push him headfirst into the orchestra pit. He struts around like a master when he’s not and you’ve heard a real master and it’s nothing _like_ Eridan motherfucking Ampora.

"Yes," Doc Scratch murmurs, turning his attention back to his two prized violinists, "Well, come now Mr. Captor. Let us hear what you've prepared."  
Here you go.

You set your case down upon the stage, kneel and unlatch and open it. You remove your cleaning cloth with a mental note to clean it later, and lovingly remove your violin from the velvet. You run the pads of your fingers over the scroll; a little ritual you have had since your very first recital. It instantly calms you down and brings a soft, blissful smile to your face. Nothing is allowed to bother you now. You lay your violin across your lap as you free your bow and tighten the hair. You rise with your weapon of choice and tuck it under your chin, resting your cheek against the cool ebony chinrest. You tune, quick and efficient. You’re all clear to play.

And then you catch sight of Eridan. The anger returns. With vengeance two-fold.

 

 

 **== > GET OVER IT AND PLAY.**

Impossible! You are far to riled to ignore this anger. Your bow hits the stings violently, and the first harsh note tastes the air. You’re far to engulfed in whatever your playing – you don’t even know anymore!- to pay attention to your audience. You completely forget that you’re playing has a purpose. You aren’t playing for anyone, just yourself and your violin and suddenly you’re nowhere. And fuck, it’s beautiful.

It’s over all too soon. The last note wavers as it dies and your chest is heaving. You have no clue what you played. You glance at your audience and the euphoria you felt withers instantly. Eridan’s eyes are wide, which is satisfying, but Doc Scratch is frowning. Your mouth is dry.

All anger converted to passion has completely left your body and now the sluice gates have let loose with the sense of failure.

 

 

 **== > Depart in a hurried manner**

Fuck that. You practically flew out of there. You blew your audition. BLEW IT OUT OF THE FUCKING WATER. YOU'RE SUCH A FUCKING GENIUS. You aren't that subway kid. What were you thinking- pretending to play like him? You can't touch perfection, you can't even mimic it. The look on Doc Scratch's face was crystal clear. You can't pull that off. You can't.

So why did you play that song? It's not yours- it's _his_. How dare you try to steal- to copy!

Well, karma nipped that at the bud. You'll be lucky if you make fourth chair.

You're such a worthless piece of talentless, lecherous scum. You're far too depressed to take the complete detour to visit Subway Station Six. You don't want to see him- no. No, _you_ don't want to be seen by _him_. All you want to do is reach your flat, turn all the lights off and collapse upon your bed. Maybe refuse to move for a few days.

So you do.


	4. Chapter 4

